“What?”
“Favorite color. Come on, that’s kind of basic couple knowledge. Isn’t it?”
“Oh. Um—” Why is this harder than coordinating our fake backstory? “Green. Forest green. Sunlight-on-the-leaves-in-summer green. Christmas green. Not lime green. Or Sage. Or that icky brownish green.” For the love, Chloe, stop using the word green.
Brody quirks a brow, but he types it into his phone. “Favorite food?”
“Pasta. Any kind. But especially carbonara. I’m very boring and predictable.” I pull up my notes. “You?”
“Blue. Steak.”
“That’s very…aggressively on-brand for a hockey player.”
He lifts a shoulder, but his smile is cute.
We keep going.
Guilty pleasure TV. (His: cooking competitions—I can’t help but love that for him. Mine: K-dramas. Don’t judge.)
Dream vacation. (His: somewhere remote with good fishing where people leave him alone. Mine: anywhere with old bookstores and questionable Wi-Fi. And now I’m envisioning us honeymooning in some small town in the Land O’Lakes…Bad. Bad Chloe.)
Biggest pet peeve. (His: people who don’t rerack gym weights. Mine: people who dog-ear library books.)
With each answer, I learn something new about him. He’s funny—dry humor that catches me off guard in a good way. Thoughtful—listens when I talk.
It’s not long before we’ve melted from business conversation into honest-to-goodness get-to-know-you-because-I-could-love-you conversation, and it’s like I’m standing outside my body, screaming at myself not to get attached. It’s not real!
We’re not friends. We’re not dating. We’re business associates who happen to be coordinating a very elaborate lie for money.
Professional. This is professional.
Even if it doesn’t feel that way.
I check my phone. 11:45 a.m. Where did the time go? “We need to get going. I still have flowers to pick up and the room to decorate.”
Brody stands, offering his hand like we’re in a Jane Austen novel.
I take it, and he helps me up, pulling me close. Close enough that I can see green flecks in his gray-blue eyes.
“Ready?” he asks.
For what? The flowers? The party? Pretending to be in love with him when I’m starting to suspect the pretending part is going to be way harder than the being-in-love part, which is absolutely not what I signed up for and is definitely going to end badly for me specifically?
“Ready.”
After a quick stop at the florist—and an awkward conversation about how the flowers aren’t for our party, where I blush so bad that I worry I might have second-degree burns—we pull up to Pinstripes.
The building is gorgeous—an upscale bowling alley slash venue. Polished wood floors, sophisticated lighting. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a courtyard that’s currently covered in snow.
The bowling lanes are pristine. The dining area is set up with round tables draped in white linens. The event space is empty when we arrive—just us and the venue coordinator, a woman named Lisa, who shows us where to set up.
“Guests arrive at three?” Lisa confirms, checking her tablet.
“That’s correct,” I reply, dropping a box of decorations on the nearest table. “Oh, and I spoke to the caterers yesterday. They’ll be arriving at two instead of two thirty. Will you be ready for them?”
Lisa notes it down with a quick nod. “We’ll be ready. Let me know if you need anything else.”
“Thank you, Lisa!”
